


The Price of Defiance

by Vhetin1138



Series: The Price of Defiance [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/F, Hawke's Magic Glowing Eyes (Like in the Trailer), Leandra's death, Sibling Rivalries, friends helping friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vhetin1138/pseuds/Vhetin1138
Summary: A death in the family is never easy. But when Marian begins showing incredible destructive power and no ability to control it, her grief threatens to tear apart everything she has built for herself.





	1. Loss

**Killer's Lair, Lowtown**

Everything had suddenly gone cold, a sudden and jarring transition considering flames and lightning had lit up the cavern only moments before. Even the rough gravel beneath Marian’s knees seemed as cold as ice, and her hands trembled violently as she tucked the limp, wheezing body close to her shoulder. She shook her head, biting back tears as her world fell apart around her.

"No,” he hissed. “No, no, no. You're going to be fine. You’re going to be fine!"

She glanced back at her assembled companions. "Merrill, heal her."

"Hawke-"

" _Heal_  her!"

"H-Hawke," Merrill stammered, "she's... she's too far gone. No amount of healing magic will reverse this. I’m… sorry."

The little elf knew there was nothing she could do. Quentin, the notorious Kirkwall Killer, had dismembered his victims and pieced them back together with surgery and magic in a vain attempt to resurrect his long lost love. Leandra, Hawke's mother, unfortunately held a resemblance to the sick mage's lost lover and was the final piece of his deranged and horrific puzzle. It was blood magic if Merrill had ever seen it, and once blood magic was thrown into a situation, people usually ended up dead. There was nothing she or any other mage in the city could do to reverse this.

It pained Merrill to see Hawke so devastated. Hawke was  _never_ sad. She was the wisecracking smuggler and protector of the Kirkwall underworld. Varric was even considering writing an adventure serial about her — with a few choice exaggerations, of course. Hawke was strong and beautiful and...

And as she watched Marian hold her dying mother in her arms, as she fought to hold back tears and desperately tried to pretend everything was going to be fine, Merrill knew Hawke would never be the same. She would never again be the beautiful, powerful, confident mage Merrill had first met all those years ago.

What she was watching was the death of the Hawke she loved.

"I-It's all right," Leandra croaked. She was gasping for breath, and Merrill could see the woman's strength was quickly slipping away from her. Leandra reached up and traced Hawke's quivering jaw with trembling fingers that were not her own; Merrill could see the stitch marks along her wrist.

"It's... all right, Marian. I'm off to see your father... and your sister."

"No," Hawke insisted, shaking her head. "I won't let you. I won't let you go!"

"Take care of your brother… he'll need you… now more than ever…"

"Stop talking like that! Just stop…"

Leandra coughed and gasped, "Oh, my beautiful girl. I'm so proud of you. Don't... don't cry. I'm... so... proud..."

Her eyes fluttered, then closed, and the woman's ravaged, scarred hand fell limp. A glassy stillness invaded her eyes, as if some deep internal light had been extinguished. Within moments, Leandra Hawke was nothing more than a shell.

Marian stared at her with wide eyes, gently rocking back and forth and shaking her head. Something happened to her eyes, too. Something seemed to break inside her, something powerful and painful that left her gray eyes staring at the body in her arms with a strange, detached disbelief. A light within her had clearly been extinguished too.

“I'm sorry, Hawke.” Aveline bowed her head. "She's gone."

"No," Hawke whimpered, tears streaming down her face. She touched her mother's cheek, as if trying to rouse her from sleep. "No, it's not... she's not... she can’t—"

She broke down in tears then, burying her face in her mother's neck and hugging her tightly. Her entire body trembled, curling up like a whipped dog as she wept. Merrill fidgeted, unsure how to comfort her lover. The others were no help at all; Varric was restraining Quentin, who had only been knocked unconscious by their battle, and Aveline was standing in stoic silence, occasionally glancing in Merrill's direction as if nudging her to do something.

 _Oh no,_  she thought.  _I'm no good at this. I can't say something_.  _I'd probably end up making things worse!_

But as she watched her heroic mage cling to her mother, wracked with desperate mournful sobs, she knew she had to do  _something_. She couldn't just let Hawke cry alone like this. But what could she do?

 _I don't even know how humans deal with death_ , she thought, panicking.  _They certainly don't treat it like the Dalish. Humans never do_ anything _like the Dalish. What if I offend her? What if I only make her cry more?_

She screwed her eyes shut and thought,  _Come on, Merrill, Hawke needs you. Do_ something _!_

 _Something_ turned out to be her bowing her head and murmuring the first words that came to mind.

" _Vir sulahn'nehn, vir dirthera, vir samahl la numin, vir lath sa'vunin._ "

It was an old elven prayer for the dead, one of the few things that remained of Dalish culture. Roughly translated, it said,  _we sing, rejoice; we tell the tale; we laugh and cry; we love one more day._ It was far from what Hawke needed, but it was all Merrill could do. She hesitated, then put a tentative hand on Hawke's shoulder.

"I'm... I'm so sorry,  _ma vhenan_."

If Hawke heard, she didn't respond. She just kept crying, clinging to her mother’s body. Merrill squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, then stepped back and wrung her hands. Had she helped? It didn’t seem like it, though Aveline was nodding in approval. Varric, meanwhile, managed to successfully bind Quentin's arms behind his back. He scowled and swatted the man upside the head.

"At least we've got this scumbag,” he muttered, mostly to himself it seemed. “That has to count for something."

"No!" the mage groaned, blinking slowly as consciousness returned to him. "Is she gone? My love? _No_!"

Hawke definitely heard that. At the man's voice, her head snapped up and a dark scowl deformed her features. Merrill could almost feel the animosity and hate pouring off the mage and actually had to take a step back in the face of her rage. She held out a hand and said, "Hawke, n-now don't do something-"

"Don't," Hawke snarled. Her voice was a twisted snarl, more animal than human, and it chilled Merrill to the bone and instantly shut her up. The human mage gently lowered her mother to the ground and straightened, scooping her staff into her hands as she rounded on the man.

"Varric," she hissed. "Get him on his feet."

Varric narrowed his eyes but did as he was told, clearly with no intention of getting between his friend and the object of her anger. He grabbed the man by the back of his neck and shoved him to a standing position, no easy task given the dwarf's diminutive size.

Quentin staggered slightly, off-balance, and fixed Hawke with a fearful gaze. "You've already taken my love, apostate. What more do you want from me?"

Hawke's breath was coming in short, staggered gasps, tears still streaming down her cheeks and painting her face with streaks of her smeared makeup. Her hair was wild and her armor splattered with blood, hands were clenched into tight, shaking fists while the amber-colored orb at the end of her staff glowed with a sinister scarlet light. She had been transformed from a normal human woman into a vengeful specter of wrath and fury, and it chilled Merrill to the bone to see her lover in such a terrifying state.

"You..." Hawke managed to choke out, "hunted and killed women across Kirkwall for  _years_. You  _kidnapped_  my  _mother_ and resurrected her as this... this... this  _monster_!"

She drew closer to the blood mage. Dangerously close.

Merrill found herself gripping her staff until her knuckles were white and she noticed Aveline resting a hand on the hilt of her sword, just in case something happened. Hawke's quivering frame was primed to explode and with a mage as powerful as she was, such an outburst could be dangerous – maybe even fatal.

"I did not  _take_  your love," Marian snarled. A low rumble built on the air and a pressure began to build within the room. The air grew so thick Merrill found it almost difficult to breathe. The flickering light of the torches that lit the area drew seemed to draw back and shrink away as Hawke moved by, the tip of her staff shedding bloody red light over everything it passed.

"Hawke..." Varric said slowly. "Don't do anything stupid, now."

Hawke ignored him and drew even with Quentin, resting the bladed end of her staff in the dirt at his feet.

"You killed my  _mother_." Hawke’s voice was still that otherworldly snarl. “My _mother!_ _”_

"She was not your mother," the Kirkwall Killer pleaded. "She was my love. I spent years searching for her and you  _stole_  her from me!"

"Stole her?" Hawke said. For a moment, her vengeful look died away in favor of disbelief and incredulity. " _Stole_  her?"

Merrill sensed something was wrong a second before it happened. In the blink of an eye, the bladed end of Marian's staff came up. The next moment the blade was buried in Quentin's chest.

Aveline shouted. Varric cursed. Merrill gasped and covered her mouth. Hawke and Quentin screamed in unison. The woman grabbed her mother’s killer by the throat and yanked him forward, impaling him further on the bladed end of her staff. A sickening _crunch_ met the motion and blood sprayed from Quentin’s torso.

"She was  _my mother_!” Marian screamed. “She  _wasn't yours to take_!"

Quentin sputtered, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. Hawke drew back her staff and stabbed again. Varric shouted, "Hawke! Stop it!"

He reached out a hand to stop her. Merrill was taking a step forward to do the same, as was Aveline. A second later, all three were blasted back off their feet by a telekinetic wave that sent them sprawling. A strange wind began buffeting them, sending Hawke's robes billowing out around her.

Quentin screamed as Hawke stabbed him a third time, driving the bladed staff into his chest with a ferocious scream. He flailed and managed to hit Hawke in the face, hard enough to send her staggering. He tried to limp away, clutching his bloody chest, but Hawke threw an arm out and the blood mage froze as a massive cloud of swirling black smoke sprang to life at his right.

A man-sized, black-armored hand erupted from the cloud of smoke to grab him by the shoulder, giant clawed fingers digging deep into his flesh. A furious scowl contorted Hawke's face into a mask of hatred and as Merrill watched, the mage's eyes began to pulse with a deep scarlet light.

"Marian!" Merrill tried to shout over the maelstrom. She knew what would come next. "No, don't!"

Too late. Marian threw out her other arm and an identical demonic hand grabbed Quentin's other side. Merrill's hair was buffeted by the wind as she struggled to rise to her feet. She ran forward and desperately clutched at Hawke's arm. "Marian! You don't want to do this!"

Hawke wordlessly shoved her away, sending her sprawling onto her back. Merrill picked herself up and shouted, " _Hawke_!"

But the woman was beyond words now; the set of her jaw and the clench of her fists told Merrill that she had made up her mind. Her eyes and hands both were now pulsing with light, Quentin was screaming, and Merrill was fighting to get up and somehow,  _somehow_ , stop what was coming. But she couldn't move fast enough.

Hawke tore her arms apart. The giant demonic hands followed.

Quentin let out an agonized shriek as the spirit arms mirrored the motion, tearing apart his body. Merrill was forced to look away as she heard the nauseating sound of rending flesh and splattering blood. Varric cursed and Merrill heard several heavy, fleshy somethings bounce across the ground. There was a _crack_ of magic and a near-deafening rumble of thunder. Then there was only silence.

When she finally opened her eyes she saw Varric staggering away, covered in blood. Aveline had drawn her sword and was crouched behind her shield, also spattered with gore. When the guard captain finally peeked around the edge of the shield, her eyes were wide and... afraid.

Hawke was standing the middle of it all, staff lowered to the bloodstained ground. For all the power she had just demonstrated, she suddenly looked very small and afraid. The fiery red light that had consumed her eyes was gone now, replaced by their usual steel grey hue. Her staff fell from limp fingers, clattering into the bloodstained dirt as the smoldering illumination that still lit the orb at the top finally flickered, then faded away.

The magical windstorm died away, leaving them all in stillness and silence. Thick dust motes floated lazily through the air, making Merrill's eyes water and her nose itch. She carefully picked herself up, wary of any more violent outbursts from the mage. But she hurried forward when she saw Hawke stagger and almost fall to her knees. She was obviously very weak after such a display. She rushed to Marian's side and put a hand on her shoulder.

"H-Hawke?” Merrill said. Her voice was so quiet it was barely louder than a mouse’s squeak. “Are you all right?"

The mage didn't answer and staggered again, as if her legs would no longer hold her weight. Like Varric, she was covered with blood. Her loose ponytail of raven-black hair had come undone and her hair was wild and messy. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the gory mess that had been, until a few moments before, her mother's murderer.

Aveline sheathed her sword and stepped forward to study the aftermath of Hawke's outburst as well. Merrill took a glance and instantly regretted it; Quentin was lying in several pieces scattered about the room, literally torn apart by Hawke's hatred. She quickly looked away before her stomach could turn any more than it already was.

Merrill had never seen a spell quite like the one Hawke had used. Innovations with the forces of magic were never good, and often involved demonic influence. Merrill prayed that wasn't the case here.

"Get her out of here," Aveline finally barked, pointing at Hawke. "Back to the estate. My guards will figure out what to do from here."

Merrill nodded, put an arm around the taller woman's waist, and supported her as they struggled toward the exit. Hawke silently allowed herself to be led away from the carnage, limping as she went. She was quivering, as if every muscle in her body was quaking in shock and exhaustion. Merrill squeezed her, trying to reassure her. It had no effect.

Varric, meanwhile, wiped blood from his jacket and grunted, "You don't intend to arrest her, do you? All things considered, Quentin deserved whatever he got."

"Regardless," Aveline sighed, "the guard has a responsibility to report this. Hawke's part can be... embellished. If not eliminated entirely."

Varric sighed and looked back over the bloodstained scene, resting his fists on his hips with a shake of his head. "If it's embellishment you're looking for,” he grunted, “send your people over to the Hanged Man. I'll give 'em all the embellishment they need."

"Oh Maker," Hawke finally gasped, her voice quiet and frightened. "What have I done?"


	2. Grief

****

**Hawke Estate, Hightown**

Merrill shook her head. "I don't know. Shouldn't the guard handle this? Don't you have rules or... what do you call them?  _Protocols_?"

Aveline sighed and stared into the fireplace, a hand on the mantle as her eyes lingered on the crackling flames. She looked exhausted, worn down by days of hard work; and convincing the guard to “overlook” Hawke’s presence at the sight of the magical murder scene was quite hard work indeed.

"We have protocols to apprehend criminals,” the guard captain said, “but not to comfort the victims. We leave that up to the family."

"But...” Merrill’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “But I'm not Hawke's family!"

"You're the closest she has. The only blood relation she has now is Carver."

Varric glared at the Templar, who was sulking in the corner with a deep scowl and eyes hollow with grief as he downed a large mug of ale. The dwarf snorted at the sight and said, "Something tells me Junior isn't going to be very understanding. Empathy was never his strong suit."

"Oh, Carver's not that bad," Merrill said. "Sure, he's a little  _gloomy_ , but he's not downright mean. I mean, yes, he joined the Templars even though his sister is a mage. And I guess he did blame Hawke for their sister's death, but…"

She trailed off and bit her lip. "I guess I see your point. But what should I do?"

"Dunno, sweetie.” Isabela sidled up next to Aveline and casually threw an arm around the taller woman’s shoulders, joining her in her perusal of the fire. “Not exactly my area of expertise. Just pull out a little of that Dalish charm you’re so good with."

"She needs to comfort Hawke," Varric pointed out, "not get her into bed. I don't think charm is going to work."

"S-so what should I do?" Merrill said desperately. "I'm no good at this kind of thing. Why doesn't Isabela go in there?"

"Because," Isabela said patiently, "Hawke cares about you. She needs  _your_  support right now, not mine."

Varric snorted. "I would have sworn you were going to make a crack about  _you_  managing to get Hawke into bed."

Isabela rested her hands on her hips. "It's not for lack of trying, shortie."

Merrill fiddled with one of her tiny ceremonial braids. "So... what do I say?"

"Just tell her how sorry you are for her loss." Aveline’s tone was gentle. "And that you're there for her if she needs you. That’s all she really needs to hear right now; that she isn’t alone."

"And throw in that you're available for some sack-time if she needs it, too," Isabela contributed.

"I don't think Hawke would appreciate that."

Isabela’s heavy earrings jangled as she shrugged. "It would work on me."

"Sorry for her loss," Merrill repeated, staring down at her toes with a deep frown. She couldn’t screw this up. Not when Marian needed her. "And I'm here to help her. She’s not alone. Okay. I can do that."

"Do you remember what it’s like to lose someone, Daisy?” Varric said. “Someone close to you?"

"Of course.” Her stomach lurched uncomfortably at the thought. “My friend Tamlen, back in Ferelden. And… Mahariel as well."

"And what did you want to hear when you were still mourning?"

Merrill tapped her chin, lips pressed into a thin white line. "That... that they were in a better place. That their deaths weren't my fault. And maybe that things would look better in time."

"There you go," Varric said. "Now you know what to tell Hawke."

"But... but even if someone had told me that," she pointed out, "I wouldn't have believed it."

"Neither will Hawke, probably," Aveline admitted. "But she needs to hear it all the same. The message isn’t what’s important. What’s important is hearing it said aloud, from someone she cares for."

‘Bela shot the little elf a wry little wink. “And you’re the lucky one who fits that bill, darling.”

"Okay... okay, I'm ready. I know what to do. Thank you."

Varric nodded with a sad smile. “Good luck, Merrill.”

The little elf nodded and left the group to their conversation, heading for the door next to Sandal's enchanting table. It was closed tight and hadn’t opened all night; Hawke had disappeared inside as soon as the funeral had ended. Merrill hesitated at the threshold, fighting to work up the courage to knock.

The funeral had been nice enough; a Chantry priest had spoken at the docks, commending Leandra's soul to the humans' Maker and asking for His grace to be shed on Leandra's family and friends. Once finished, Leandra's ravaged body had been lowered into a ceremonial funerary boat and pushed out to sea. Once the boat had floated to a safe distance, Varric had fired a flaming bolt from his trusty crossbow, Bianca, and set the boat on fire. The flames had climbed up into the sky, flickering against the orange expanse of the setting sun. Under any other circumstances, she would have found it a beautiful sight. But her grief had stopped her from fully admiring the view.

She hadn't known Leandra well. They had only spoken a few times during Merrill's visits to the Hawke Estate, and Marian's mother had always seemed a little... uncomfortable in her presence. Merrill never really knew if Leanrda liked her or not, and she wasn't sure the elderly woman had approved of her daughter's affections for an elf. Still, it was Marian's mother, and that was enough to earn Merrill's sympathy.

She had wanted to tell her lover as much, wanted to put her arms around the woman and let Marian cry on her shoulder for once. But since Hawke's magical outburst in Lowtown, the mage had refused to talk to her – or anyone for that matter – and had strictly avoided everyone else attending the funeral. She wouldn't even talk to Varric, and the street-savvy dwarf had always been able to bring a smile to her face. Through the entire funeral, Hawke had maintained a strictly flat and emotionless expression. Her jaw had tightened slightly when flames consumed the funeral boat, but her expression remained otherwise blank for hours. When the boat finally sank beneath the waves, finally consumed by the fire, she had silently turned and walked away without a parting word for anyone. Merrill had hurried after her, trying to work up the courage to say something, but the human woman had returned to the estate and vanished into the west wing of the house without a word.

And now here Merrill was, standing on the threshold of that same door. Marian was just beyond. Waiting for her.

 _Okay_ , she thought to herself, clenching her hands into tiny fists.  _I can do this. I'm sorry for your loss and I'm here if you need me. Sorry for your loss and here if you need me. Simple._

Then she reached up and rapped her tiny knuckles against the door.  She took a hasty step back, as if she half-expected Hawke to blast the door down. But the _knock, knock, knock_ was so quiet, she cursed herself and thought a mouse could make more noise. There was no answer, so she knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer.

She leaned close and pressed her ear to the door. Her heightened elven hearing easily picked out the crackle of the fireplace in the room beyond. But beyond that, there was nothing. She moved back and wrung her hands, debating with herself. Should she knock again? Should she come back later?

 _No,_ she thought. _I can_ _’t run away from this. Hawke needs me._

She didn’t knock again. Instead, she reached out and slowly pushed the door open. She bit her lip and poked her head through the gap, ready to duck back outside if needed. She had no idea what Marian was feeling right now and didn’t know if she would be greeted with a grieving, desperate hug, tears, or an incoming fireball.

She gulped and whispered, "Marian? Are you in here?"

Still silence, save for the snapping of the wood in the fireplace. But she saw the silhouette of a person sitting in a chair before the roaring fire, the shadow flickering and dancing in the yellow-orange illumination. It could only be Hawke, so Merrill inched through the door and softly pushed it closed behind her.

"Hawke,” she said, wringing her hands as she stepped forward, “I wanted to tell you—”

"It's my fault."

Merrill blinked. "W-what?"

"It's my fault," Hawke repeated. Her voice was unnaturally dull, not dissimilar to the monotonous tone of a Tranquil mage. “My fault Quentin got his hands on her.”

Merrill inched forward, further into the room, and saw the fire in the hearth had long since died. The source of the flickering red-orange light was a crackling orb of fire that floated in the palm of Marian’s hand, casting her face into sharp highlights and shadows. The woman was staring into the flames with the same blank expression she had worn during the funeral, as if her mind was somewhere far, far away.

Hawke was a pyromancer, a mage skilled in the creation and manipulation of fire. Merrill had often found herself a little jealous of her lover's talent, though she now found herself nervous to see Hawke messing with destructive magic within the confines of her home. In such an emotionally raw state, the chances for her to lose control again were higher than usual.

But she didn’t bring this up. She just stood a few strides away from Marian’s chair with her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes fixed on the raven-haired mage before her.

"I killed DuPuis," Hawke murmured. She flexed her fingers and the orb of fire rippled, breaking up and undulating like a living creature. It shimmered and wrapped around her fingers before reforming into the perfect, crackling orb. "All those years ago, I thought  _he_  was the Kirkwall Killer. And then I let the matter rest. I sat back, thinking I had solved the problem and everyone was safe."

“Marian…” Merrill took a single step forward. "You had no way to know."

"No, I should have  _followed through_ ," Hawke hissed, widening her fingers and letting the orb of fire swell. The illumination grew brighter, until Merrill wanted to cover her eyes. "I should have  _made sure_. Something about the DuPuis case that always nagged at me. There was always something in the back of my mind telling me I had missed something. But I wrote it off. I figured,  _If the real Killer shows up someday, I_ _’m more than strong enough to handle him_."

"You were!" Merrill insisted, taking a few steps toward Hawke. "You caught him, in the end..."

She laced her fingers together, still not meeting Marian's eyes. "What happened to Leandra... it wasn't your fault, Hawke. There was nothing you could do."

"I could have  _been_ there  _sooner_!" Hawke snapped. She clenched her fist and the fire vanished with a quiet  _pop_ and a shower of sparks. "I... I could have  _done_   _something more!_ "

She slumped forward, resting her elbows on her knees and raking her fingers through her messy hair. Her voice was shaking dangerously and her hands trembled as badly as her voice. "But no matter how hard I fought, my magic... it just wasn't  _enough_!"

"Magic can't do everything," Merrill ventured. "It's a tool, used to help people. It doesn't make you a god."

"I couldn't save Bethany,” the human woman continued. “Back in Ferelden? My sister died because I wasn't fast enough to save her. Then I couldn't stop Carver from joining the Templars, throwing his life away to those fucking knights and their damn crusade... I kept telling Mother that I would keep the rest of our family  _safe_. And I… I _failed_. I failed _everyone!_ "

"You didn't!" Merrill said. "You didn't fail, Hawke. It's just..."

She fell silent with a sigh and a grimace, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Hawke shook her head, staring into the dead fireplace for a long time. She folded her hands in her lap and sat back in the chair. Her voice returned to its earlier, unnaturally calm state.

"There's nothing you can say, Merrill."

“I know,” Merrill said with a tiny squeak of a voice. “But I still want to try.”

But despite her desire, she could find nothing to say. Together, they lapsed into a silence that seemed to last an eternity. Merrill glanced between Marian and the dead fireplace several times before sighing and murmuring, "Hawke... If you need anything, I'll be right upstairs. Just… call me and I’ll be there. Whatever you need."

She was turning back to the door when Hawke's voice drew her back.

"The Templars are right, you know."

She slowly turned back. "What?"

Marian shook her head and didn’t look away from the cold fireplace. "The Templars are right to lock us mages up in towers and stop us from roaming free. If they had gotten their hands on Quentin, none of this would have happened."

She instantly took a few steps back into the room. "Hawke-"

"And it's not just Quentin," Hawke interrupted. She stared down at her open palms, at her quivering fingers. "When he kept calling Mother  _his love_ , I... I lost control. I lashed out, with magic more powerful than anything I've felt before. It was... it was like every fiber of my body was tingling, like there was fire in my veins. It was... intoxicating. And I killed him, even though I knew I shouldn't have. I couldn't stop myself."

"No one holds it against you, Marian."

"Well then they  _should!_ _”_ Hawke shook her head with an irritated scowl. “My father taught me better than that! I should have more control! I should have more  _restraint_!"

“I don’t think—”

"Merrill...” Marian’s voice cracked. “…I'm afraid. I've spent all my life thumbing my nose at the Chantry, thinking mages shouldn't have to bend to their will. But for the first time, I'm starting to think maybe those rules... maybe they're there for a reason. Maybe mages are too dangerous to roam free."

She seemed to shrink, to fold in on herself with her next words. "Maybe things would have been better off if I had been locked up with the rest of the Circle mages."

"Don't talk like that, Hawke," Merrill pleaded. "Please don't-"

"Maybe I want to, Merrill," Hawke hissed. "When Bethany died, Mother and Carver blamed me. They said they didn't, but I could always feel it. Carver didn't even bother to disguise it. And they were  _right._ Bethany died because _I_ wasn't strong enough to kill that ogre that attacked her. _I_ couldn’t save her. And I made myself a promise that I would never be that weak again."

With a flick of her fingers, she lit the orb of fire again, once more staring deep into the flames.

"I know a lot of tricks," she said. "But that's all they are: tricks. None of it matters when things get bad. This time I had a chance to turn things around, a second chance to show that I had learned from Bethany's death.”

Something seemed be warring behind her eyes, a strange mixture of grief and fury. “And I failed.  _Again_."

With a flick of her fingers, she sent the orb flashing into the air. It roared forward and exploded within the confines of the fireplace, instantly setting the cold logs aflame. Merrill jumped at the noise and covered her mouth with her hands. Marian didn’t move. The crackling light lit the entire room, throwing Hawke's face into stark contrast. The sudden glow illuminated Hawke's most noticeable feature; an old, ropy scar that ran down her forehead, over her right eye, across her lips, then sideways over her chin.

According to Marian, it was an old souvenir from an overzealous Templar who had caught her playing with a weak fire spell when she'd been a child. To many humans the scar would have marred Hawke's otherwise beautiful features, but Merrill found it strangely endearing. It made Hawke mysterious and charming, like she had walked straight out of Isabela’s valiant pirate tales or Varric’s epic tales of Grey Wardens and other heroes. But all that charm was suddenly gone, lost in the grief that now swelled in the woman's pale eyes.

"Maybe this is my punishment for resisting the Chantry," she said, her voice flat and dull. "The price I have to pay for my freedom."

Merrill hesitated, then approached her and sank to her knees in front of her lover’s chair. She gently took Hawke's hands in her own, smaller elven ones. "Marian,” she said. “I need you to listen to me."

The tiny elf stared at the mage until the woman met her emerald gaze. Only when sure Marian wouldn’t look away did she speak again. Her voice sounded far firmer than she expected. Her sudden certainty surprised her, but she didn’t allow it to deter her.

"Remember what I said, the first time we... were together? I told you that I wasn't like you. I'm not a powerful mage, or a respected warrior, or a beautiful woman."

"Merrill..."

"Let me finish," Merrill said. "In the days I first met you, I wished I  _was_  you. As far as I was concerned, you could do everything better than I could. You were a far more powerful mage than I will ever be. You commanded a respect I could never hope to share. And... and people  _loved_  you. You were beautiful and kind and always willing to help others. And I knew I would never be like that, no matter how much I wanted to."

She looked down at her sandals as a blush warmed her cheeks. "Even the things I thought I was good at, you could do better. When I spoke to demons of the Fade, I thought I could reject everything they tempted me with. I was wrong. But you... you _always_ held fast. You rejected everything the demons tried to give, even when everyone else turned against you. Even me."

She hesitantly looked up and met Hawke's piercing blue-gray gaze. "I don't envy you, Hawke. You've had a difficult life. And it doesn't seem to be getting easier."

Hawke shook her head. "That I can believe."

"But I also think if anyone can handle a life like this, it's you. You're  _strong!_  Stronger than anyone else I know! You can come back from this stronger than ever, I know it. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life."

"And what if I don't want to?" Hawke suddenly said. She pulled her hands from Merrill’s grip. "What if I think it's easier to just turn myself into the Circle? Let myself become Tranquil like all the other captured apostates?"

The little elf blinked. "You... you don't mean that."

"Maybe I do, Merrill," Hawke snapped, tears beginning to shine in her eyes again. "Maybe I... maybe I don't care about feeling any more. Maybe I don't..."

Her trembling voice betrayed her and she trailed off into silence.

"Shh," Merrill said, reaching up and cupping Hawke's cheek. She traced her thumb over Hawke's old scar, a gesture she knew the woman found comforting. The mage's breath was hitching as she fought to hold back tears, so Merrill just continued to stroke her cheek.

"You can do this,” she murmured. “You just have to trust me."

Hawke shook her head, silent tears starting to leak from her eyes. "I don't... I don't want to. I just want my mother back."

"I know."

The mage sniffed, her voice coming in harsh gasps now. "I don't... I don't  _want_  this power any more, Merrill. I just want to be normal. Like Fenris or Isabela."

Merrill smiled. "You don't need to deny your powers in order to live a normal life. Besides, you really think Fenris and Isabela are  _normal_?"

Hawke let out a tiny choked laugh, tears wetting her cheeks. "I don't know. I guess not."

She sniffed, still struggling mightily to maintain her composure. "I didn't... I didn't mean it, Merrill. I don't want to be Tranquil. I just don't want to feel like this anymore."

"No one does,  _ma vhenan._ _”_ Merrill smiled. “But it'll be all right. I’ll make sure of it."

That did it; Hawke finally broke down and began sobbing. Merrill pulled her close and let Hawke cling to her and the mage held tight to her like a drowning woman to a floating raft. The little elf let her valiant mage cry, knowing it was what Hawke needed, knowing it was all she could really do. She patted Marian's back. All her earlier anxiety was gone now; she knew now what she needed to do, what Hawke needed from her, and where they went from here.

“I’m here, Marian,” she whispered in the woman’s ear. Her lithe elven fingers came up to stroke the human’s silky midnight hair. “You’re not alone.”

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually, when Hawke had calmed down some, she drew back and sniffed, eyes red. She rubbed her forehead and let out a weak chuckle.

"Oh if Varric could see me now. This would certainly change some of the stories he tells about me."

Merrill smiled. "I won't tell if you won't."

Hawke nodded slowly. "I... thank you, Merrill. You being here... you have no idea what it means."

"I think I have an idea,  _ma vhenan_."

She considered leaving, then hesitated and said, "Hawke... there's something else I need to talk about. Then I'll leave you in peace."

"You aren't bothering me, Merrill," Hawke sighed, sitting back in her chair with an air of exhaustion. She closed her eyes for a few moments, then nodded and said, "Talk away. I'm listening."

"When..." Merrill bit her lip nervously. "When you killed Quentin, your eyes... well they got a bit  _creepy_."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How so?"

"It was a little difficult to see what with the spectral wind and the screaming and the... well, you know. But when I looked in your eyes, I saw..."

"Just say it, Merrill."

"They started  _glowing_. Bright red, like fire."

Hawke frowned. "Odd. I don't remember that. Then again... I don't want to remember much of what happened in Quentin's lair after..."

"I just wanted to say that I've only ever seen people's eyes change like that when they're immersed in very powerful blood magic. The blood magic is so strong that a person's body can't contain it, and it seeps out through the eyes, fingers..."

"Blood magic..." Hawke echoed, staring over Merrill's shoulder, into the fire again. "Just great. So what exactly did I do to Quentin?"

"I'm not sure. I've never seen anything quite like it. But Quentin had thinned the boundary between our world and the Beyond. And I think, with you in an already emotionally-weakened state, you may have brought the attention of a spirit... or a demon."

Hawke's shoulders slumped. "You're joking. So I may be an abomination on top of all of this?"

"I don't think so," Merrill reassured her. "If you'd been possessed by a demon, you'd be conscious within the Beyond and you'd show physical changes in this world. But I'm wondering if some spirit or demon felt your pain and took pity on you, granting you the powers of a seasoned blood mage in order to achieve your vengeance."

Hawke rubbed her eyes. "So Fenris was right... all apostates eventually turn to blood magic. Whether they want to or not, it seems."

"Blood magic doesn't need to be used for evil, you know," Merrill ventured. "You could treat it like what it is at its foundation: very powerful magic. It could help you."

"Won't I have to worry about being turned into an abomination?"

Merrill frowned. "I'm not sure. I mean, I can't presume to know the mind of demons. You seem fine to me. But then again, I can't be sure you aren't an abomination already and just lying to me. But you still look like Hawke, so I'm not sure. But if the demon was inside you, why wouldn't it reveal itself to you? I wonder if demons don't always try to take over their hosts. Or-"

"Merrill," Hawke said, finally sounding amused. "You're rambling again."

"Right. Sorry. Point is, I don't think you're an abomination and I think as long as you're careful, you won't become one."

Hawke nodded, looking small and exhausted as she stared into the fire. After a few long moments of silence, she said, "You're wrong, you know."

Merrill glanced up, frowning. "What about?"

"You told me once," Marian sighed, "that you weren't like me. That I was clever and beautiful and..."

She shook her head and met Merrill's vivid green gaze. "You were wrong. You're clever and strong and beautiful as well, Merrill. And... and I wouldn't be able to get through this without you. I really wouldn't. Thank you."

Merrill smiled, blushing furiously. "Is this where I act all humble and say,  _oh, Hawke, you're such a flatterer_?"

Hawke chuckled, her demeanor seeming to brighten the tiniest bit. "Not if you don't want to. And it wasn't flattery, by the way."

Merrill smiled wider and said, "In that case, I'll just say thank you, Hawke. I don't deserve you."

"And I don't deserve you."

"Good," Merrill said cheerfully, putting on a confident face for her. "Glad that's settled."

She reached out and squeezed Hawke's hand. "Dry your tears,  _ma vhenan._  The others are waiting for you."

 

"My mother..." Hawke began, "was, above all else, a strong woman. She never grew tired of retelling the story of my birth, when she was in labor for almost twenty hours. She then went through the same ordeal years later, with the births of Bethany and Carver."

They were gathered in the study, the fire roaring in the background. Fenris, Sebastian, and Carver were standing together near the hearth, far from the mages present. Anders, Merrill, Aveline, and Isabela were gathered in the center of the room, while Varric was standing by himself off in a sufficiently shady corner. All were listening intently.

Marian smiled, half to herself. She caught Merrill's gaze and Merrill nodded encouragingly. The mage nodded back and continued, "No matter what struggles the Hawkes faced in life, we always knew we could count on Mother to stay strong in the face of adversity. When we first arrived here in Kirkwall, we had no home, no money, and no idea what to do. But Mother did not panic. She gritted her teeth and did what had to be done. And the rest of us followed her example."

Hawke faltered, her voice catching a little. She swallowed and continued, "I like to think she passed that trait on to her children. That strength of will, that determination and refusal to give up. They are... admirable qualities."

She took a deep breath and said, "My mother led a difficult life. She was cast out by her family, driven from her home and husband, forced to watch her youngest daughter die, and stranded in an unfamiliar place she was forced to call home. But she is in a better place now, a place where she can find peace in the arms of the Maker. We should never forget her, and never forget the example she left behind."

She looked up and held Merrill's gaze, as if she was the only person she felt she could look at. Merrill was glad to see Hawke's eyes clear of the sorrow she'd seen there before. She was calm, collected, and focused. They all would need that in the days to come.

Now that she was finished with her short speech, Hawke seemed to deflate a little, as if all her energy was suddenly sucked out of her. She folded her arms across her chest and murmured, "Thank you all for coming. Not all of you knew my mother well. It... it means a lot to me that you came."

Varric, off in his shadowy corner, nodded as he stroked the stubble on his cheeks. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Hawke."

Anders also nodded. "We wouldn't abandon you at a time like this, Marian."

Hawke smiled and said, "I'm truly blessed to have friends like you guys."

Isabela laughed. "Oh come now, Hawke. You'll make me blush."


	3. Rage and Recovery

**Hawke Estate, three days later**

Merrill woke suddenly to the sound of a door slamming. She sat in silence for a moment, feeling the tingly sensation of adrenaline course through her body. It was pleasant, in a strange unearthly way, similar to the sensation of communing with the Beyond. But she pricked up her sharp elf ears and listened intently for any more strange sounds.

Was Hawke's estate haunted? She hadn't sensed a frayed connection with the Beyond. But if there was a ghost in the house, what would she do? She knew how to deal with spirits and even demons from the Beyond, but ghosts were something different. Something... scarier.

She reached over in bed and gently touched Hawke's shoulder. The mage was sleeping quietly, the first good sleep she'd gotten since the funeral. Merrill felt bad for waking her, but if there was something in the house, someone needed to know.

"Hawke?" she whispered. "Are you awake?"

The tall woman stirred with a groan. "Merrill? S'that you?"

"There's something in the house. It may be a ghost!"

Hawke sighed and rolled over. "S'just your imagination. There's no rift in the Fade here. Made sure. S'just the wind..."

She sighed and began to drift off to sleep again. Merrill fidgeted uneasily, but slowly lay back against the too-fluffy pillow, folding her hands over her stomach and closing her eyes. But at the sound of another slamming door, followed by a distant howl, her eyes snapped open again.

 _That is not just the wind_.

She rolled over and shook Marian's shoulder again. " _Hawke_ ," she insisted. "There's really something out there!"

Hawke rolled over onto her back and rubbed her eyes wearily. "Okay, Merrill. What did you hear?"

"A door slammed. And some spectral voice  _moaned_ , just like in Varric's stories."

Hawke sighed and sat up in bed, shaking locks of raven-black hair from her eyes. She reached up and tied her hair back in its usual short ponytail. Once done, she cocked her head and listened. After a few long moments of silence, she began to nod off again. Merrill was about to protest when that same echoing voice called, " _Hawke!_ "

Marian's pale, gray-hued eyes instantly snapped open. She reached over and grabbed the staff leaning against the bedpost. "Okay, Merrill. You win."

Another slammed door and the sound of raised voices sent shivers down Merrill's spine. The diminutive elf instinctively curled up, tugging the bedsheets closer around her with eyes wide. "What is that?" she hissed. "Templars? Thieves?"

"I doubt there's a thief in Kirkwall stupid enough to try and rob this house." Marian slowly sat up, listening intently. Merrill wished she could do something  _other_  than listen intently; her heightened elven senses informed her of every creak of the floor, every burst of air, every sigh of the old, empty mansion.

The voices were growing louder, closer to the main bedroom. Hawke quickly slid out of bed and murmured, "Get dressed, Merrill. I have a bad feeling about this."

The elf nodded quickly and scurried into her green-dyed leather armor. Hawke quickly dressed as well, throwing on her reinforced combat robes in record time. Once done, she scooped up her staff again and slipped out the front door. Merrill was right on her heels.

The voices were coming from the main room. It had to be only a few hours after midnight, and the hearth was dark and cool. Hawke lit a small flame orb in her left hand, shedding flickering red-orange light across the stairs.

Two people were shouting on the floor below. Hawke raised her staff, pointing the bladed end down the stairs. As she drew closer, she heard Bodahn's nasally voice snap, "I don't care why you're here, messere _._ Madame Hawke is not receiving visitors at this time! Family or no!"

The smooth, ever-seductive voice of Isabela joined the chorus. "Listen to the little hairy man, sweetie. You're not thinking straight. Just sleep it off and tomorrow you'll feel much better."

Another voice, thick and slurred by alcohol, now shouted back, "I don' give a fuck, you... you Rivaini whore! And don' call 'er  _Madame,_ dwarf. She's 'nough of a self-obsessed bitch as it is..."

Hawke slowly lowered her staff, staring down the stairs in shock. " _Carver_?"

Her younger brother, red-faced and bleary-eyed, fixed her with a wavering stare. He staggered a little, waving a bottle of some vile-looking blue-brown liquid in one hand. "Well, well, well... if it 'ain't my beloved big sis."

He hiccupped and took a long draw from his bottle, dribbling quite a bit on the hardwood floor in the process. Bodahn grimaced at the sight and said, "I'm sorry, Madame. I tried to get him to leave, but he wouldn't hear anything of it. He's a bit too...  _off_  to listen to reason."

Isabela rested her hands on her hips and shook her head. "I found this poor sod staggering around the alleys up by the Chantry, shouting to himself. Figured it was the kinder thing to help him waddle his way over here than get stabbed by some thug in a deserted back alley."

Hawke nodded with a sigh. "Thank you, Isabela."

She gestured to her brother. "Come on, Carver. We'll set you up in your old room and you can head back to the Chantry tomorrow morning."

" _No_!" Carver snarled. He pointed at Hawke, spilling more of his drink in the process. "No, I'm here... I'm here to turn you in,  _Marian_."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"You..." Carver slurred, "are a fuckin' apos... apostit... apos..."

"Illegal mage," Isabela murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

"Yes!" the Templar cried. "Yes, that! You're an illegal mage,  _sister_ , an' it's my duty to turn you over..."

"Carver," Marian sighed, "you're drunk. And you're not in the best position to be making threats."

Carver threw his bottle aside, letting it bounce across the hardwood floor. With a flail, he drew his greatsword from his back and held it in a strong two-handed grip. His bloodshot eyes narrowed. "Mother is  _dead_. Because of you an' your cursed magic. You an' Bethany an' father... all three of you did nothing but ruin things for our family. If not for you bloody mages..."

Merrill glanced between Carver and Marian, wringing her hands and wishing she'd brought her staff. If this came to blows, she didn't know what would happen. Carver was an unpleasant man, sure, but he was also a powerful fighter and she'd seen his greatsword cleave enemies in half within the span of seconds. She didn't want to fight him. She didn't think Hawke did either.

Isabela, meanwhile, sauntered up to the fallen bottle, picked it up, and sniffed its contents. She glanced at the Templar with a small smile, then took a long swig from the bottle. She grimaced, no doubt at the taste of Kirkwall's cheapest whiskey, then said, "Sweetie, you can't blame Hawke. Or your dead sister for that matter. Your mother died because of the actions of a single, very bad man. A man who's dead now, thanks to that  _fucking apostate_ , as you so eloquently put it."

Carver spun to her. "Don't tell me what to do! You don't know anything you harpy pirate wench!"

Isabela burst out laughing. "Harpy pirate wench? I've been called a lot of things in my time, little Templar, but that's a new one."

Carver turned bright red and hefted his greatsword, maneuvering the tip to aim at the piratess' chest. Isabela, halfway through another drink of the fallen whiskey, froze where she stood. She slowly lowered the bottle and narrowed her eyes. Her sultry voice took on a dangerously steely edge. "Now, now, sweetie.  _That_  is a very big mistake."

"Hawke..." Merrill whispered, clenching her tiny fists. The tension in the room was palpable, like the air just before a thunderstorm. Isabela's brown eyes were flashing dangerously and Carver's muscular frame was positively quivering with rage.

"Hold on," Hawke slowly said. "Let's not do anything hasty, you two. Why don't we just-"

Carver swung to her, the greatsword blade following. Merrill's heart skipped a beat as the tip of the blade tapped against Hawke's chest. Marian looked down at the blade, then fixed her little brother with a dark glare. "Carver, stop this. Put the sword down."

"What was that thing Aveline's idiot husband kept spouting?" Carver hissed. "All those years ago back in Ferelden?  _The Order dictates_?"

His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. Merrill knew what was about to happen and knew she couldn't stop it. Carver tightened his grip over the grip of his weapon and spat, "Your magic has hurt people long enough, sister. You're finished."

He pulled back, preparing for a slash that would carve Hawke in two. Things happened very quickly after that.

Hawke raised her staff, as if believing the magic-infused wood would stop the incoming blow. Isabela moved almost too quickly for eyes to follow, drawing her blades from her back and leaping forward. And Merrill cried, "No!" and threw her arms out, watching them suddenly pulse with blinding green light.

The hardwood floor fractured and shuddered beneath Carver's feet. Then, with a resounding  _crack_ , entire sections of the floor exploded up into the air, pushed up by undulating tendrils of roots that sprang up and tangled around Carver's arms and legs. The blade continued to descend, though, and Marian wasn't quite fast enough to throw herself out of the way. The blade caught her shoulder, biting through the cloth and leather and sending the mage staggering.

Merrill redoubled her efforts and snapped the roots tight. Carver instantly froze, unable to move as the magic-imbued foliage held him fast. Bodahn quickly scurried in and snatched the bloodstained greatsword from his grasp, dragging it off out of his reach.

Isabela, always one to take advantage of an opponent's weaknesses, leaped forward and thrust her knee against the small of the Templar's back. Merrill quickly let her spell dissipate and the roots released him before slithering back into the floor. Isabela shoved him to the ground, yanking his arms behind his back and pinning him there with a knee in his spine and a blade held across the back of his neck. The piratess leaned down and hissed in his ear, "I told you that you were making a mistake. Next time, listen to the pretty lady with the knives."

Hawke, meanwhile, staggered back with wide eyes, as if she hadn't really expected Carver to strike out at her. Blood soaked her right arm, which hung limp at her side. Merrill heaved a sigh of exhaustion, drained by the sudden expenditure of mana, but quickly stepped up to the mage's side.

"Are you all right?" she asked, touching Hawke's uninjured shoulder.

Something was wrong. Hawke was too still, too calm. She didn't seem to even notice the wound in her shoulder. She was just staring at Carver, breathing hard, fingers clenched tight around the shaft of her staff. Marian squeezed the taller woman's arm for emphasis. "Marian? Are you listening?"

Hawke still didn't answer, raising her hand and watching the blood slowly trickle off her fingers. A dark, hateful scowl began to cross her face, twisting her beautiful features. As Merrill watched, a familiar scarlet glow began to consume Hawke's pale gray eyes, wafting out from her face in thick wisps of smoke-like magical discharge.

 _Oh no_ , Merrill thought. She quickly stepped in front of the mage and held out a hand. "Hawke, don't do this. Remember what happened last time!"

When Marian spoke, her voice was twisted and dark, more an animalistic snarl than a normal voice. Merrill shuddered at the sound, unable to believe this was the same voice that had comforted her and whispered words of love in her times of need.

" _Step away, Merrill_ ," Hawke thundered. " _Let me do what needs to be done."_

"No!" Merrill shouted. "I won't let you."

" _You cannot stop me._ "

"I can," Merrill said, sounding braver than she felt. "And I will. But only if you make me."

In all honesty, she actually didn't know if she could. Her knobby knees were all but knocking together and her heart was fluttering in her chest. It took all her courage to simply stay standing in front of the mage, but she knew if she moved Carver was dead.

She clenched her fist and summoned a Lightning Storm spell. If unleashed, Merrill could ensure the spell wouldn't kill Hawke, but it could still seriously harm her. It was a dangerous gamble, but an uncontrollable Marian Hawke caught in the throes of blood magic was too dangerous to leave unchecked.

"Please, Hawke..." Merrill pleaded, desperation cutting through her voice. "Don't make me do this."

Hawke surged forward, until she and Merrill were almost nose-to-nose. " _Do you know what that man has_ done _to me_?  _Every time our family stumbled or faced hard times, Carver blamed me. Every time the sun didn't shine exactly how he wanted, he blamed_ me _. He did_ nothing _to protect our family, placed_ all  _the responsibility on me when I inevitably failed. Do you know what that's_ like _? Do you know what it's like to be held accountable for_ everything?"

"I... I do, Hawke."

The taller woman faltered slightly. Merrill wrung her hands and said, "When I became Keeper Marethari's First, my people turned against me. They... they  _hated_  me. And when I kept trying to repair the Eluvian... and when I turned to blood magic..."

She fought to hold back tears. It was an old wound, but still a painful one. "They never accepted me. They always shut me out. I wasn't allowed to hunt with others, wasn't allowed to tend the Halla, or help tell stories of our origins..."

She looked at her feet. "They called me  _Bloody One_  and  _Demon Bait._ No one would be friends with me, no one would even so much as share a meal with me. Until... until you, Hawke."

Hawke stared at her, slowly lowering her hands. Dark red smoke still billowed from her eyes, but she was staring at Merrill with something beginning to resemble control. Merrill screwed her eyes shut and thought,  _Well, nothing to do now but keep going_.

"You were the only one who was nice to me," she said. "The only one who was willing to give me a chance. You treated me like I've always wanted to be treated."

She glanced back at Carver. "I see a little bit of me in him, I think. All his life, he's had to live up to your example, always had to be  _Hawke's little brother_. He's always been overlooked, left behind by people who'd rather turn to you. It's almost the same, don't you think? And he's not always grumpy because he hates you, Marian. He's grumpy because he wants to be  _like_  you. He wants to be treated like you and celebrated like you and loved like you."

She looked back to Hawke. "Carver's a mean, mean man. It's true. But he's also your brother. He's the last true family you have. And if you kill him, who will you have left?"

Hawke was as still as a golem, staring at Carver through those fiery red eyes. But she slowly lowered her staff, the malevolent glow from the orb at the end beginning to dim.

Satisfied Hawke wasn't about to kill anyone, Merrill turned back to Carver. The Templar glared up at her, struggling in vain against Isabela's iron grip. She crouched by him and said, "And you. I know what it's like to be constantly overshadowed, constantly passed over in favor of others. But that's no reason to act this way. You would really kill your only remaining family because some madman killed your mother?"

"A mage killed my mother!" Carver shouted. "A mage just like Marian!"

"No," Merrill said, more force in her voice than she thought possible. "Not like Marian. Marian uses her powers to  _help_  people. Quentin was out for his own gain and his own gain alone."

She pointed back at Marian, whose blazing scarlet eyes were finally, finally beginning to die out. "Ever since your family left Ferelden, she's devoted herself to protecting your family and helping  _everyone_  she runs across, you and me included. Many would kill to have a sister like her."

"She is still a mage," Carver said. "An  _apostate_. A dangerous one who could end up doing the exact same thing Quentin did."

"She is a mage," Merrill said. "So am I. So is Anders. We're not all bad, Carver, no matter what you say. In fact, I think you could learn something from our example."

"Never!"

Merrill sighed and turned back to Hawke, whose eyes were still pulsing with scarlet light. "Let him go, Hawke. Like you said, he's drunk and he doesn't know what he's saying. Let him go back to his Chantry and let them sort him out."

"And if he brings the Templars back here?" Isabela questioned. "What if he decides to spill his guts out to his buddies?"

"We'll deal with that if that happens," Merrill said. "We've managed to avoid the Templars so far."

She looked down at Carver again and said, "Besides, if Carver turns us all in, I'll use my last bit of magic to turn him into a newt."

Carver's bleary, bloodshot eyes widened. "You wouldn't."

She narrowed her eyes at him, ignoring Isabela's wide grin. "I  _would_. And I would never,  _ever_  turn you back."

He stopped struggling against Isabela's grip, staring at the floor. He eventually spat out, "Fine. I won't tell the Templars. Not yet, at least. But you bloody apostates had better watch your backs."

Hawke glared down at her brother through her blazing red eyes. Her voice was still dark and twisted when she said, " _Isabela. Release him."_

"You sure? You're not gonna-"

" _Release him_."

Isabela glanced at Merrill, then sheathed her daggers and stepped away from Carver. She scooped up his fallen whiskey bottle again and took a long swig from it. She grimaced and said, "Ah, it's too late for shit like this."

Marian took a single step toward, glaring balefully down at her brother. " _Leave, Carver. Leave now and never come back. You are no longer welcome in this house or in this family. Go back to your Chantry, Templar, and never return. If you do, I will not hesitate to kill you."_

"Hawke..."

Hawke turned that blazing gaze on Merrill now. She shrank back as the mage thundered, " _Do not try to stop me, Merrill. My decision has been made_."

Carver staggered to his feet, the first traces of fear showing on his face now. "You were always dangerous before, Marian..." he hissed. "Now... now you're a bloody monster."

" _Yes,_ " Marian replied. " _A monster that will hunt you to the end of your days if you ever threaten me or my friends again."_

She pointed to the door. " _Leave. Now_!"

Bodhan slowly stepped forward and handed the Templar's greatsword back to him. The man sheathed it over his back and staggered his way to the door. Once there, he glanced over his shoulder, purposefully meeting Merrill's gaze.

"Be careful, elf," he said. "That woman... she'll be your undoing. Now more than ever."

Merrill bit her lip, finding it hard to argue with his words. But she just stared at her feet and said, "You need to leave, Carver."

He glared at his sister one more time, then stepped through the door and disappeared into the street outside. He let the door slam shut behind him.

As soon as her brother was gone, the blazing fire blinked out of Hawke's eyes. She staggered and threw out a hand to lean against the wall, catching her balance as if suddenly dizzy. Her face was pale and her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. Her hands were shaking and her staff fell from her grasp.

"Hawke?" Merrill asked, rushing to her side.

Hawke covered her eyes with one hand, her voice shaking as she said, "I... it was a good thing you held me back, Merrill. I would have killed him. I know it."

"I don't believe that," Merrill said. "The fact you didn't rip him in half right away shows that you're already getting it under control. Are you okay?"

Marian nodded wearily. "I'm… I'm fine. I just feel… drained. Too tired."

Merrill sighed and put an arm around Hawke's shoulders; no easy feat given her diminutive size. "Come on. Let's get you back to bed. A good night's sleep will do us all good."

As they made their way upstairs, Bodhan said, "I'll alert the guards of this altercation in the morning, Sera Hawke. They'll make sure Carver doesn't bother you anymore."

"Thank you, Bodhan."

They were halfway up the stairs when Isabela's seductive drawl drew her attention back to the room below.

"Kitten?" the piratess called from the hearth. "A word?"

Merrill frowned at the suddenly serious tone in the piratess' voice, but she nodded. She gently pushed Hawke toward the stairs and murmured, "Go on. I'll be up in a minute. Or more than a minute. Isabela can eat up time worse than Keeper Marathari."

"I heard that," Isabela called.

 _Right,_  she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.  _Shut up, Merrill. You talk too much._

Once she made sure Hawke was safely heading back up to her room, she turned back to the pirate standing at the hearth. She wrung her hands once more and said, "Did you want to talk?"

"Kitten," Isabela sighed, "I'm worried about you. And Hawke."

"W-what do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"She's not an abomination," Merrill insisted. "She's not. I checked."

"I know you'll stand by Hawke even in stormy weather, Kitten, but this…" Isabela shook her head. "This is different."

The dark-skinned woman sighed and stared at the bloodstain on the ground where Hawke had been cut by her brother. "I've seen a lot of things in my travels, but… this blood magic stuff is creepy. I don't like it."

Merrill fidgeted and wrung her hands. "So what should I do? Turn her over to the Chantry?"

"Fuck no." Isabela turned to face her, heavy earrings jangling quietly. "Hawke has always been dangerous. One of the reasons we all find her so attractive. But now she's  _very_  dangerous, to everyone around her and herself to boot."

"But what should I do?"

She folded her arms. "When a captain becomes dangerous and untrustworthy while at sea," she explained, "a council is called by all crewmates. The crewmates vote and see if the captain should be removed – sometimes only temporarily – until the danger has passed."

"You're saying we should stop following Hawke? Abandon her when she needs us most?"

"It's not mutiny," Isabela assured her, putting a heavy, calloused hand on her shoulder. "Not really. But Hawke needs time to get this all in order. Following her when she forces herself back out onto the streets is only going to get us all killed."

Merrill stared at her feet, continuing to fidget and wiggling her toes. "I… I don't want to talk about this. I don't…"

"Merrill," Isabela said, pointedly avoiding using a nickname. "I want you to listen to me. Hawke is out of control. I know you think you can get her back, but you need to entertain the possibility that she's not going to get better. She may…"

"I know about abominations," Merrill said crossly, her tiny face pulling down in a scowl. "And Marian is  _not_  an abomination. And… and I'll force the issue if I have to. I'll… I'll fight."

Isabela threw her head back and laughed. "You? You would fight me?"

"I… I would!" Merrill insisted. "I take care of my friends, Isabela. And Hawke is my friend."

She stepped away, reaching for Hawke's fallen staff. "I thought you were my friend too."

"Ooh, so the Kitten finally shows her claws," Isabla laughed. "Calm down, Merrill. I have no intention or desire to get in a scuffle; the dance with Carver was enough."

She stepped forward and rested her hands on Merrill's tiny shoulders again. "I'm not going to go running off back to sea. Got nowhere to go beyond Kirkwall. And I'm not going to turn on Hawke any time soon because she's still too much fun to hang around."

"But-"

"Merrill, I know how you feel about her. But you're in dangerous waters, and if you and Hawke aren't careful, this whole boat is going to sink."

"I… I know," Merrill reluctantly admitted. She stared down at her feet again. "I've been… scared. For Hawke, for… for me. I've had my fill of demons and the Fade. I don't want to see Hawke corrupted like that."

She glanced over her shoulder. "But she needs me. Now more than ever. And I need to make sure nothing hurts her. It's… it's my duty."

"Then prove it. Keep Hawke off the streets for a bit, at least until she can get all this under control. If she's destined to be a blood mage, so be it. But teach her how to control it if you have to. It would be too dangerous if she's left on her own with all this."

Isabela nodded and stepped back, grabbing the whiskey bottle again. She took a long pull and grimaced, then said, "Marian's a very lucky girl to have someone like you watching her back. We'll keep her safe out on the streets. But keeping her safe from demons is your responsibility. Okay?"

Merrill nodded quickly. "Okay. I can do that. I know I can."

"Good. Now run along to bed. I'll show myself out."

She sauntered over to the door, calling over her shoulder, "You're a good girl, Kitten. Make sure Hawke knows that."

Merrill bid her good night, then turned and hurried up the stairs after Hawke. She half-expected to find the mage huddled in a corner somewhere, overwhelmed by recent events. But she was tucked up under the bedcovers, curled into a tight ball.

"Hawke?" Merrill murmured. "Are you all right?"

"I'm… I'm scared, Merrill," came the mage's voice, muffled by the covers. "I can't keep lashing out like this. I'm going to kill someone. Again."

Merrill settled herself on the edge of the bed. "You'll be fine. It just takes time."

"And you're sure I'm not an abomination?"

Merrill nodded. "I would be able to tell. You're clean. Relatively speaking."

Hawke nodded tersely. "I guess… I guess that's some good news at least."

She looked over at Merrill with her pale gray eyes. "What… what was it like? When you met your first demon?"

Merrill chewed her lip. "It was… odd. I'd always been taught that demons were vile, evil creatures that would try and possess your body. But he was very friendly. Very polite. Not at all like the demons we've come across so far. It was… well, it was almost a pleasant experience."

"Will I know? If a demon tries to… to  _take_  me. Will I be able to resist?"

"Those with strong minds can resist," Merrill reassured. "Someone like you will probably find it easy. Easier than someone like me, at least."

She reached out and put a comforting hand on the gentle curve of Hawke's back. "You don't need to worry about this, Marian. I'll keep watch over you. I'll keep you safe."

Marian let out a chuckle, followed by a morose sniff. "And here I was thinking I was the one protecting all of you."

"It's about time the tables turned," Merrill said with a shy smile. "You've done enough, Hawke. I'm glad to take some of the burden."

The covers rustled as Hawke shifted and sat up. She reached out and took Merrill's tiny hands in her larger human ones. She hesitated, then said, "Thank you, Merrill. I… I love you."

Merrill beamed. "And I you,  _ma vhenan._  Demons or no."

Hawke grinned back, then pulled her forward and kissed her gently on the lips. After a few happy moments, Merrill pulled back and said, "Now you need to get to bed. We have a busy day tomorrow."

Marian raised an eyebrow. "A busy day? What did we have planned?"

"We didn't have anything," Merrill said happily. "So I decided we're going to go hiking up Sundermount. Getting you out in nature will help. Trust me."

Hawke pondered over this, then nodded. "All right. It's a date."

Merrill clapped her hands. "Oh good. I was worried you'd refuse. I wouldn't have blamed you, considering all you've been through, but I really think it's going to help you. I know this nice spot only a few miles up the mountain, where there's this nice overturned tree that-"

Marian let her ramble, watching her prepare for bed again. After a few long moments she interrupted the young Dalish. "Merrill?"

Merrill instantly fell silent. "Yes?"

Hawke hesitated, then bowed her head and closed her eyes. " _Ma serannas, ma vhenan._ "

Merrill blinked quickly, a wide smile stretching across her tattooed face. She reached out and cupped Hawke's cheek, tracing her thumb along the long scar that marred the skin there.

" _Hamin atisha, ma lath._ "

 

**One month later** **…**

Hawke grunted, pulling as hard as possible against Isabela's iron grip. Sweat beaded her forehead and she gritted her teeth as she strained as hard as she could. Isabela's arm quivered, but didn't budge. Isabela nonchalantly inspected the painted fingernails of her free hand as Hawke struggled, then sighed and said, "Sorry Hawke, but I'm ready for another drink. Play time's over."

Slowly but surely, Hawke's hand began to drift further and further toward the table. She grimaced and threw all her weight into resisting the bronze-skinned woman. It was no use – her arm was failing her and she could no longer resist Isabela's grip. She narrowed her silver-hued eyes and gasped, "Damn you, woman! How... are you so...  _strong?!_ "

The last word was punctuated by the heavy  _thud_  of the back of Hawke's hand hitting the tabletop. Hawke let out gasp and rubbed her arm while Varric threw his hands up in the air. "Damn it, Hawke. You just lost me ten sovereigns!"

Hawke clenched her fists and snapped, "It's not my fault! Isabela's got the arms of an ogre!"

Isabela grinned and scooped up a mug, throwing back an admirable swig of the Hanged Man's special brew. "You can swing around that magic stick of yours as much as you like," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of one hand, "you aren't  _strong_  until you've served a straight nineteen hours before the mast, lashing rigging in a high storm."

Hawke rolled her eyes and sipped at her own mug. "Andraste's grace, you even talk like a pirate. Do you ever feel ashamed of that?"

"Of course not," Isabela snorted. "I worked hard to perfect my pirate jargon. If anything I'm proud. Reminds me of the good old days."

Varric sighed and slid a pouch of coins across the table to the piratess. Isabela picked it up with a grin, tossed it from hand to hand to weigh it, then tucked it into a pouch on her belt. Varric slapped the tabletop, then looked to Hawke with a glare. "I think you owe me my next round, Hawke."

Marian shrugged and flagged down the nearest bartender. "Seems fair since I didn't live up to all your stories."

"Damn right."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the other tavern patrons as they sipped at their watered-down drinks. Eventually, Isabela cleared her throat and said, "So... Hawke. How have things been? Since... you know."

Hawke slowly set down her mug, spreading her palms along the tabletop. "Things have been good. At least as good as they can be, given the circumstances. Merrill has been a godsend, and Bodhan's made sure Carver keeps well away from the estate. I'm not sure he's even tried to come back."

"The Chantry's his home now," Isabela shrugged. "Let him rot there."

"Some of me feels bad about how we parted company last time," Hawke admitted. "Templar or no, he's still my brother. I wish…"

Varric cut her off. "Don't get too bogged down in wishing, Hawke. No quicker way to see yourself get lost in the past. No one wants to see that."

"So what? Should I name my staff after Carver, then work up some mysterious backstory about it that I refuse to tell anyone about? That's hardly coping."

Varric shrugged as he downed another gulp of his drink. He set the mug aside and belched, then said, "You could. But no one likes a copycat, and Bianca is very much the jealous type."

Hawke pulled a face. "Don't worry. I'm not so annoying as that."

Varric scoffed. "Annoying? Sera Hawke, you  _wound_  me!"

Isabela, meanwhile, had fixed her attention on the door to the tavern, where a small crowd was beginning to gather. She leaned back in her chair and folded her legs, watching intently. People were jostling back and forth, murmuring between themselves, all fixated on something happening outside. When she listened closer, her sharp hearing picked out the clamor of swords from the street beyond.

She quickly downed the last of her drink and nudged Hawke's arm. When the mage finished her argument with Varric and began paying attention, she nodded to the door and said, "Something's going on out there. Care to investigate?"

Hawke glanced at Varric, who shrugged and said, "Sounds like fun."

The three stood from their seats and made their way to the door. The crowd parted before them, too nervous to get between the action and such storied fighters. As they emerged into the glaring sun and smog-filled streets of Lowtown, Isabela saw a battle raging in front of them. Coterie, but the looks of them, tangling with the city guard.

One of the fighting guards, an unmistakably tall woman with blazing orange hair, waved to them and shouted, "Well don't just stand there! Help out!"

Isabela glanced at Hawke as she drew her beloved daggers from the sheaths on her back. "You heard the guard captain.  _En garde_!"

Hawke nodded as she reached out with the sharp tip of one armored glove and sliced open a shallow cut on her forearm. Blood immediately began to well from the minor wound, and Hawke coated two fingers with it. Brushing her fingers horizontally across her face, she painted a brilliant streak of blood over the bridge of her nose.

Almost immediately, her eyes began to glow a bright red. She glanced at Varric and drew her staff from her back. "Shall we?"

He grinned and fed an arrow into his crossbow. "I thought you'd never ask."

Then they leaped forward, into battle.


End file.
